


aftermath

by nonbinarywithaknife (littleboxes)



Series: me sobbing about critical role [48]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Feels, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath, Other, Pain, Resurrection, Run On Sentences, Sad, Self Confidence Issues, Self Esteem Issues, Spoilers, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts, Temporary Character Death, aftermath of friendly fire, e55 spoilers, ruminating on mortality and morality, self doubt, self hatred, self worth issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 14:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18143129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleboxes/pseuds/nonbinarywithaknife
Summary: the aftermath of the fight under the well





	aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> this is not a happy one  
> edited june 20 2019 for clarity/grammar

Caduceus is sitting up, eyes lidded, but not asleep. His mind isn’t rushing, exactly, but he is thinking; of his death, his vision, the feeling of blood rushing from his chest, and the strange, disconnected knowledge, _I am dying, I will be dead_. But then- _coming back-_ but, not. Not in the wrong way, he _knows_ the wrong way, knows that if he were to cast _eyes of the dead_ he would see no tell-tale glow, but is it _right_?

Should he be alive? He doesn’t know, and yearns to commune with his god, to feel the comfort and wisdom of the Wildmother, but he is tired, so tired, can feel the emptiness in his chest where the cool comfort of his magic usually resides. However, despite the ache in, well, _all_ of him, he doesn’t particularly want to lie down. The feeling of stone against his back is too similar to his recent death, brings unhappy recollections- the gushing warmth of his blood, the metallic scent filling his nose. No.

Caduceus sits, head hanging, thoughts flowing like a lazy river, slowly but steady and unrelenting, visions of bright fields and blood.

* * *

 

Nott is curled into as tight a ball as her dexterity will let her, and is far as her friends as she can be, without leaving the bubble. Her arms are wrapped around her legs tightly, claws digging into the ratty bandages climbing up her legs, and she’s so drunk she can’t actually form coherent thoughts. The numbness is nice, though, or at least nic _er_ , and so, so necessary. She doesn’t want to think, doesn’t want to remember the dawning horror, the bitter, sour regret that choked her as the bolt was loosed.

Doesn’t want to remember seeing the explosion, the smoke, acrid and grey, seeing a pink, bloodied body feet away from where it should’ve been, tossed like so much trash, his chest still, deadly so, Jester’s cry, the shattering diamond, and all the while, Nott, standing, frozen, the thoughts in her mind at a stand-still. Until- no, she _sees_ it, _her_ actions, _she_ did this, oh _gods she killed him_. The fight is  over, and Nott is feeling so, so much, too much, the stress, the frantic worry for Yeza, for her son, about their journey, the adrenaline from the fight is still pumping, and the knowledge that she _killed_ _one of her friends_ is settling over her shoulders like a leaden blanket so she reaches to her hip for her flask and starts drinking.

No one stops her, everyone else is just as fucked up from the fight, and so she drinks and drinks, _who needs to breathe, anyway_ , until her vision is fuzzy and that roaring hurricane in her mind is a swirling whirlpool of nothing. Her flask doesn’t have a distinct _flavor_ , really, it’s just harsh burning, the natural result of combining dozens of different alcohols indeterminably. She drinks and drinks, feeling not just the alcohol, but the regret flowing down her throat. She can’t bring herself to look at him- he’s sitting the closest to her, of them all. Her last thought, as she finally drifts off, is _wouldn’t be a wonder if I drink myself to death?_ There's a first time for everything, really.

* * *

 

Fjord is sitting, legs crossed, and eyes very much open. He is staring out of the dome, to where the lead box is, where they’ve stored a _rift to the Abyss_. He can’t do much- _(anything, useless, vicious, monster, stupid-)_ but he can stay awake, he can watch, he can put his body in front of Jester and Caduceus, stare the demon in the eyes, and think _kill me first_ , because he has no more magic to cast and his sword is useless against this fiend, but if he makes it stop,  _pause_ , take the time to kill him, then Jester has a better chance, Caduceus has a better chance, and if he dies so they live, well, that’s the least he can do. ( _Useless, stupid, vicious, monster, good for **nothing** and wanted by **no one**._) He sits, still, a deceptive calm to the roiling emotions underneath, like the sea, the ocean, and thinks, what use are his meager spells and sword, in comparison to them?

Caleb, a trained wizard, who can incinerate a man with one spell, who knows everything, remembers _everything;_ Jester, who is a constant beacon of light and happiness, even after all this, who can pull magic from the _Divine_ ; Yasha, who towers above them all, with a sword bigger than Nott, but who also has wings, and can bring a dying man back from the brink, and Beau, who can _punch ghosts_ , who’s strong and capable, who was trained to root out corruption from the highest levels, and _does_. Nott, who’s gone through so much and can still keep going, who can nail a foe in the eye feet away, who can drink her weight in whiskey and still pick a lock, and then there’s him:

An orphan from Port Damali, not even wanted by his parents, who stumbled into a pact he can’t remember, who can swing a sword, (Yasha does it better) and who can sling some measly spells (Caleb does it better) who’s good for nothing at all and can’t even protect his friends.

* * *

 

Beau’s eyes are still wet, even after all this. She’s not crying, not anymore ( _Stupid, stupid, what can you even do? Punch things? In the face of all your friends, so capable, clearly on greater paths, and then there’s you, thrown away, abandoned, can’t do a bit of magic, but can kick things real good, she swears. hah._ ) but her eyes are wet, as she sits, knees up. She picks at the bandages wrapped around her arms.

Everyone around her, falling- Fjord, a bloody pile on the ground, too far to reach, and what could she even do? She doesn’t have any healing potions on her, and she’s not like Jester, or Caduceus, can’t heal him- not even like Yasha, who can lay her hands on them and bring them up, no can’t even do _that_. And then Caleb falls, and Beau can do nothing but keep hitting, and Caduceus falls, and _dies,_ and she can do _nothing_ but hope, and try to keep the monster focussed on her. She can only punch, and punch, and punch again, hoping, praying to every and all the gods, _please, please, snap her out of it, bring her back, I can do nothing else, please, please,_ pushing past her own limits, she can feel her strings bending, stretching, breaking, Beau’s not sure if it’s her muscles, or something else, but can she be mended? She’s already so so broken, what more can be done, now? She sits, in her painfully human body, thinking of her every inadequacy, and wondering, _what the hell am I doing here?_ (be patient, don’t get attached, _live. hah._ )

* * *

 

Jester is laying on the ground. She doesn’t want to be alone, right now, she wants all of them to pile together, to feel the grounding presence of her friends all around her, to know they’re _here_ , _alive_ , and that she _did_ it, she _saved_ them, she healed them, she didn’t fail, she _didn’t_. But. But everyone’s so broken, so raw, so painfully hurt and exposed, after this fight, and they’re all off, alone, and Jester doesn’t want to trouble them, not with her selfish wants, because she’s fine, she’s _fine_ , she _has to be_ fine, because she’s the happy one, she’s the _light_ , and she needs to smile and keep them all together, going and going.

So she lays down on the cold, hard ground, and tries to sleep, and when finally it reaches her, she doesn’t think about having to choose- how close she’d come to deciding which one of her friends, ( _family_ ) lives, and who would die, she wasn’t made out to play god, she doesn’t want that responsibility, why, why, _why_ is she the healer, it should’ve been Caduceus, he likes healing, he can do it so, so much better, but when he goes down, they’re stuck with her. Healer healer healer, _failure_.

* * *

 

Yasha is cold. Not the cold anger of her rage, that is a tunnel vision, driven by fear, and the protective, selfish need to _protect_ _her people_. Instead, she feels cold and empty, like that day at Molly’s grave, in the snow, _it happened again_ , and again, the blood on her sword is red, and human, it is the blood of Beau, of Caleb, her _allies,_ her _friends_ , she _hurt_ them, nearly killed them, _wanted_ to kill them, because she is a monster, _OrphanMaker_ , cursed to hurt everything around her, undeserving of any nice thing, any kind thing, because she will kill it, crush it, leech the warmth and kindness from it like winter does from flowers.

She thinks about the spell fading, of catching Beau’s fist instinctively, of the wavering words slipping from her mouth, _I’m sorry,_ as if an apology could ever be enough. Instead, the _anger, the rage_ , running hot through her, foam at her mouth, and she’d pushed down the hurt, the pain, the regret, and brandished her sword at the _enemy,_ the creature that charmed her, and _roared_. She didn’t think of the tears running down Beau’s eyes, how unnatural they seemed on her normally confident face, the mumbles she’d heard, _Yasha no, c'mon, please, Yasha, it’s me, it’s us, your friends, Yasha._

* * *

Caleb can still taste the ash in his mouth. He feels empty, hallowed out, like someone has taken a spoon to his insides and taken away all the feeling. It was like warm water poured over his head, when the devil had cast its spell. It had felt so _right_. Of course these people had betrayed him, he could expect no less, and so he _must_ kill them, he _needed_ to kill them, he’d felt the fire drawn into his hands, up, up, out and  _through_ \- _fireball_ , the soot covering his scarred hands. The grim satisfaction coursing through him as he watched them light up, scattering like rats.

Then the shock, the horror, the _oh god, Caleb, why?_ in their eyes. The, _Is this it? What we’ve dreaded?_ He was numb. It was different, than last time, not quite the same. There were no screams, no breaking, just shouts and grunts and the surety of _yes, they have betrayed me, they deserve this._ And then, after the spell, the crushing, horrible weight of, _I have done it again, no no nonono not the fire, not again_.

The wary looks and Jester’s anger cutting into him more painful than the crystals ever were. The bitter smoke, filling his throat and his lungs, choking him, no breath left, but still murmuring spells like an automaton, (maybe if he was made of metal than he wouldn’t have to feel the pain) his vision getting blurring as he clings desperately to consciousness, the horrible, uninvited thoughts, _they would think nothing of your death, just let it take you_ , he’s knows they’re wrong but he needs them to be right, as he slips in and out of the blackness.

**Author's Note:**

> :))) can't wait for next episode


End file.
